Sherlock's Choice
by SuperSonic21
Summary: "Two worlds, Sherlock. One in the TARDIS, with the Doctor . . . And the other on Baker Street, with Dr. Watson. One is real, one is fake. Pick the right one, and I'll let you live. Pick the wrong one, and it's game over . . ." AU 'Amy's Choice'. Moriarty, the Dream Lord, asks: can the Sherlock differentiate between reality and a dream? Complete!
1. Chapter 1

**_AN_: If you're reading this, it means you're interested in the story. If so, please let me know! I'll only be continuing if people want to read it, because I have other stories to write but this idea just wouldn't leave me alone! **

**So, it's a Sherlock AU, based on 'Amy's Choice'. Let me know what you think of Chapter 1, and if you want me to continue. **

**Cheers! - B. **

* * *

"Alright?"

Sherlock didn't respond to John's enquiry. While he would have appeared to most people to be asleep, his eyes were just closed, and for now – for _now_, at least – he appeared the picture of tranquillity.

John found that this was not the case when he went and deposited the groceries he'd bought after work on the kitchen table. There was a note from Mrs. Hudson.

_Dear Dr. Watson, could you please tell Sherlock that next time he brings thumbs home, . . . _

"Oh, _Sherlock!_" He cried, picking up the note, and stomping through to the front room. "I leave you alone for five minutes!"  
"A day," Sherlock corrected.  
"-for five minutes!" John continued, "And you've started putting thumbs in _her _fridge!"  
"Yes," Sherlock hadn't opened his eyes yet.  
"What's the problem? Was ours too full? Is there a head in it, taking up too much room?" John asked sarcastically, still seething with anger.  
"No. Her fridge is a less modern brand. Its maximum temperature is lower than our fridge's. The optimum temperature, in fact, for the experiment I am currently conducting,"  
"Why couldn't you just change the temperature on _our _fridge?" John sighed in exasperation.  
Sherlock cracked an eyelid, and used one eye to give John a judgemental onceover.  
"Because then the experiment with the head would be at the wrong temperature,"  
"I thought you said there wasn't a head!"  
"No, I said-"

Silence. Sherlock felt as if his vocal chords had just suddenly ceased to work, as John stared at him expectantly. He sat up abruptly, and in his haste his dressing gown fell clumsily to the floor; he almost tripped over it in his rush across the room.

"Something, something . . ." He muttered, but with a sense of urgency.  
"Something what?" John asked, frowning and following the consulting detective.  
"John, what did you buy at the shops today?" He pressed, as he span slowly around, observing the entire flat.

Sherlock felt a creeping sensation of half-remembered realisation. How could he have already forgotten what had made him feel uneasy? Everything felt strange, all of a sudden; goosebumps prickled all over his skin. Outside, people walked, and talked, and bustled about and a siren blared uncontrollably.

"Um, just the usual-" John went to the bags he'd just put down, retrieving and naming a list of boring items that were apparently essential to life.

"Butter, orange juice, beans . . ."

Everything felt like it was closing in on him, as he dived at the table, inspecting each item as if his life depended on finding some vital clue on its packaging.

"Crisps, some of that cereal you eat once in a blue moon . . ."

He felt as if something was approaching; like a monster or a ghost or something _unbelievable _was climbing up the stairs outside, and was about to burst in.

"Grapes, milk . . ."  
Sherlock seized the milk.

"This isn't the milk you usually buy," He said, his tone almost accusatory.  
"Yeah, I know that, thanks," John replied, watching warily as Sherlock eyed the milk suspiciously.  
"Why? What made you switch? What's changed?"  
"Well . . ."  
"Yes?" Sherlock asked, his voice and his gaze intent.  
". . . It was on special offer,"

Sherlock huffed and slammed the plastic carton down.

"Sherlock? . . . I don't have a bloody clue what you're looking for! What's gotten into you? I mean, not that you're not . . . _Odd_ usually, but this is a little more intense,"  
"Have you moved something?" Sherlock asked, ignoring his questions.  
"No! I've been out all day!"  
"Have _I _moved anything?" Sherlock asked himself.  
"How can you not know?" John asked in incredulity.  
"I can't . . . I don't know . . ." Sherlock frowned, striding swiftly towards the table, and examining the way the papers were arranged: precariously shoved on top of one another, in a shabby pile, like an impromptu game of Jenga.  
"Wow. Three words I never thought I'd hear you utter without the use of torture . . ." John muttered.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed to himself, drawing himself up to his full height again. His ran a hand through his hair, pulling at it for a moment. He stepped towards the window, but there was nothing going on that caught his attention. The only sound that remained consistent throughout his searching was . . .

"John, where do you suppose that siren is headed?"  
"I don't know. An accident," John replied, beginning to tire of Sherlock's cryptic questions.  
"What kind of accident?"  
"Oh, I don't know. You're probably better at identifying the different sirens than I am, by now. Could be police, fire, or-"  
"Or the Doctor," Sherlock finished. He promptly keeled over backwards onto the sofa, sound asleep.

* * *

" . . .-lock . . . Sherlock? Come on, Sherly-"  
Sherlock felt a hand gently slapping his face. He frowned, and batted it away irritably. He opened his eyes.  
"Doctor," He growled, not happy to have been woken up.  
"There he is! Glad you're awake, actually. You're a bit big to carry to the bunk beds. Must find a smaller companion,"  
"Whose idea were they anyway, they're way too short for me. . ." Sherlock muttered, rubbing his eyes.  
"Hence, the suggestion of a smaller companion!" The Doctor repeated jovially.

Suddenly, it registered with Sherlock what had just been said.  
If not in bed, where had he fallen asleep?

He sat up quickly, and his question was answered: he'd fallen asleep on the floor of the TARDIS console room, still in his suit, by the looks of it. Not big on dignity, and not to comfiest of surfaces upon which to rest. He was also covered in a rather nasty orange blanket. He pushed it away in revulsion.

"What happened?" Sherlock enquired, on his feet in a second, and looking around for any clues that would answer his question for him.  
"Well, you just collapsed. I told you to _tell _me when you get tired! None of this 'I don't sleep' rubbish. You were clearly knackered!"  
"So I just fell asleep," Sherlock asked in flat disbelief.  
"Yes," The Doctor replied, smiling in amusement.  
"With no apparent cause?" He clarified bluntly.  
". . . No, you were tired," The Doctor replied. "I thought you were supposed to be clever!" He said, tapping Sherlock's forehead and making him wrinkle his nose.  
"I thought _you _were supposed to be clever. Why would I not tell you if I was tired, and in danger of collapsing? What if we'd been in some sort of hostile environment? It would have been detrimental to both of us if I'd not told you I was tired, and collapsed, because I would have definitely been killed, and you have a nasty habit of going back and _saving_ people, almost as if you want to be killed yourself," Sherlock reasoned.  
"Oh, you're a _cheery _one today," The Doctor sighed, rolling his eyes, "Fine, let's go back in time, I'll be sure not to save you from those Daleks last week,"  
"That's a fixed point in time, Doctor, we both know you wouldn't ever change it," Sherlock dismissed casually.  
"I said 'never interfere with a fixed point in time except for cheap tricks'," The Doctor warned him in amusement.  
"You _didn't_ save me," Sherlock hissed insistently.  
"Yes I _did_!" The Doctor replied childishly.  
"No, you-"

The TADRIS rumbled extremely loudly, cutting off the impending argument between the travellers. It jerked suddenly to the side, throwing them both to the floor once again. Sherlock crouched, his head in his hands, defending himself from any damage that could occur when he was being thrown about. The Doctor, however, was not so careful.

"Whoa, there!" He yelled at the time machine, clutching onto several levers as he was thrown from side to side, and frowning at the central column wildly. "What's wrong?"

But it didn't last long. It about thirty seconds, the calamity was over, and the room was left calm, and silent, and . . . Dark.

All the lights went out, bar the central console, which glowed a ghostly, alien blue instead of its usual warm hue. Sherlock had never seen anything quite so unearthly before, even in all his time travelling with the Doctor. The strangest thing of all was, invariably, the machine in which they travelled. He'd still never seen the entirety of the time machine, and though that no one ever would if they lived forever. It was _exponential_, apparently.

"No . . ." Whispered the Doctor, frantically twisting the 'hot' and 'cold' taps that adorned the console, which looked as if he'd stolen them from a bathtub in the fifties. He frantically punched several letters into the typewriter, before standing stock still, and just staring at it, his jaw set, and his eyes wide.

". . . The TARDIS - It's dead, correct?" Sherlock interjected. "It isn't _breathing_ like it usually is," He added, more to himself than to the bereaved Doctor.  
"I . . . Something must have happened . . ." Muttered the Doctor to himself, slowly treading in a circle around the column. Both he and Sherlock's analytical eyes swept over it, but found nothing. Nothing that had gone wrong; nothing that could be fixed. It had simply winked out.

Suddenly, the Doctor ran for the door, and stuck his head out of it. Sherlock strode quickly over to it, buttoning his suit jacket, in the knowledge that space is, in fact, quite cold.

The Doctor blocked his view.  
"Sherlock," He addressed his companion, who looked down at him questioningly, "This is very, _very_ bad,"  
"Let me see-"  
"I don't know if you should-" The Doctor began, but stopped of his own accord, as Sherlock barged past and stuck his head out of the door. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes: his inquisitive nature was his defining characteristic. It was what had made the Doctor initially want to take him on his everlasting journey through time and space, at first. Then he'd learnt: there was _so much more_ to Sherlock Holmes than met the eye.

Sherlock gasped – _genuinely gasped _– at what he saw. He'd seen many things on his travels, from criminals to aliens, detectives to spaceships, but he'd never seen anything as _huge _as this planet before in his life.

"Which planet is that?" Sherlock asked, his interest piqued, as he leant back into the TARDIS.  
"I'm not entirely sure . . . The screen isn't working . . ."  
"But why is it bad?"  
"Can you feel her moving?" The Doctor asked quietly, his eyes fraught with worry.  
"I . . ." Sherlock stood still for a minute, his head once again out of the door. He felt his hair blow gently back, and realised. "We're heading right for it . . . We're heading for it, at speed – we have forward momentum,"  
"Exactly. Then you understand,"  
"Will we have enough momentum to get into the area covered by its gravitational pull?"  
"I'm afraid so . . ." The Doctor mumbled.  
". . . What happens if a dead TARDIS crashes into a planet?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"It blows up . . . With the force of _ten nuclear bombs_,"

Both Sherlock and the Doctor turned towards the space in the darkness where the high, lilting voice had come from.

Slow – _agonisingly _slow – were the footsteps that came after it. Sherlock shut the door, and went to the Doctor's side, fearful but defended by his own bravado. Eventually, he saw a figure and face defined by the unearthly light, as it stepped forward.

Sherlock thought, _how odd, that the same blue light should adorn that face, the only two times I have ever seen it_ . . .

"Quite the predicament, wouldn't you agree, Sherlock?"


	2. Chapter 2

_**AN: **_**Well, since you all asked so nicely. Expect weekly updates - every Monday, if I can manage it! Thanks to Pretty Much Nobody, pearlgirl97, MizzSY, Let's Kill Tonite, Anonymous, menairchu, and CheyanneChika for your lovely reviews - and help with my mistakes. Very useful. **

**Now, enjoy! - B. **

* * *

"You . . . Stay away from me," Sherlock growled, stepping in front of the Doctor, who frowned, his mouth opening and shutting in complete shock and surprise.  
"Oh, tut-tut, Sherlock. What manners! Aren't you going to introduce me?"  
"I don't make a habit of introducing my friends to my arch enemies, Jim," Sherlock snapped.  
"Fine, suit yourself," He shrugged, and turned to the Doctor: "Jim Moriarty, consulting Dreamlord. The only one in the _universe_ . . ."

He sauntered over to the Timelord and the consulting detective, idly touching the TARDIS console in a way that made the Doctor visibly grind his teeth in annoyance and frustration.  
". . . Hi," He finished, drawing out the syllable artificially.  
"How did you get on board my TARDIS?" The Doctor asked, his voice thunder, his eyes storm clouds.

"Oh, so _boring_! Boring questions! From the only Timelord left in existence, oh I expected _more _. . . Let me tell you, though – it wasn't that hard, my dear. But enough of that! We've a game to play! Would you like to know the game?" Moriarty asked, beaming unpleasantly at Sherlock. "This is a one-player game, I'm afraid," He said, turning to the Doctor with an expression of mock disappointment, his lips turned down grotesquely at the corners.

"How're you doing this?" Sherlock cut in, as the Doctor stared darkly at the intruder.  
"Oh, boring old Sherlock, you're just as dull," Moriarty said, doing an impression of the consulting detective, staggering along in mock stupidity. "Next you'll be asking how I made the TARDIS break down in time for it to crash into a planet! . . . You'll just have to find out, now, won't you?"  
"And how do I do that?" Sherlock asked bluntly.  
"Well, if you play the game . . ." The Irishman trailed off mischievously.

There was a moment of silence; the Doctor turned to Sherlock, his back to Moriarty.  
"You don't have to do this; we can find a way out. I'm sure he's got a teleporter, we can force him to leave or . . . _something_," He whispered, flailing his hands at the suggestion of 'something'. Sherlock wasn't convinced; neither was Moriarty, who'd heard him perfectly.  
"And how do you propose you _force _me to do anything?" Moriarty asked in mock confusion from behind them, "I know you, Doctor. You'd never leave a man behind . . . Not even your _worst enemy_,"

In response, the Doctor quickly took out his sonic screwdriver, and scanned the intruder.  
"He's . . . Well, he's human, but-"  
"Don't be so sure," Sherlock warned, keeping eye contact with his nemesis the entire time.  
"Oh, you two!" He exclaimed, "You've only got forty minutes before you crash into that planet and kill the entire population! And you're wasting time on little old _me_? I'm flattered, really, I !"

The Doctor put his screwdriver away in silence. Sherlock stood, rigid, with his hands by his side.  
Moriarty was touching the console again.

"Well? Are you going to play? It's your only chance – _their _only chance at survival, Doctor. The people on the planet, below. They'll die, you see. So . . . Go on. Encourage him to play,"  
"I won't put his life on the line-" The Doctor insisted loudly.  
"Fine," Sherlock said, interrupting the Timelord. "I'll do it,"  
"Good! _Very _good. See, Doctor? You should train your pets more carefully – otherwise they'll just be _disobedient_," His lip curled in revulsion around the final word.  
"Get on with it," Sherlock said quickly, glancing at the TARDIS door unconsciously.

Moriarty approached Sherlock - slowly, _slowly_ - until they were almost toe to toe. He looked up into Sherlock's sneering face, and smiled a tooth-filled, hackneyed villain's smile. He seemed fictional enough, but they were in danger, and it was _very _real.

"Two worlds, Sherlock. One in the TARDIS, with the Doctor . . . And the other in Baker Street - London, England, Earth - with Dr. Watson,"  
Sherlock opened his mouth, about to protest at that fact that Moriarty had known what his dream was about.  
"One is real, one is fake,"  
That shut Sherlock's mouth; his eyes grew momentarily wide, and then narrowed in suspicion.  
"Pick the right one, and I'll let you live. Pick the wrong one . . ." He made an ugly sound, sliding his index finger across his throat, his eyes bulging in a mock-suicide. ". . . And it's game over,"

"But this one is real, _obviously_," Sherlock laughed derisively, looking his nemesis up and down.  
"Oh, is it? . . . Well, then. I'm sure you'd like a nice rest before you make that rash decision, wouldn't you?" Moriarty said.

Somewhere, a siren began to whine; it came closer, and closer, and it made Sherlock clutch his head, and shut his eyes, as if that would reduce the noise level.

He felt the Doctor support him as he keeled over, and heard him yelling at Moriarty, but it was all overridden by that hideous, droning, repetitive-

* * *

"-Siren,"  
"Oh, Christ, Sherlock! You had me worried!"

The consulting detective sat up quickly, and realised he was back on the sofa as he had been earlier. He'd had one hell of a dream. One hell of a-

. . . Oh God.

"John," He gasped, "What happened?" He asked, grabbing hold of John's cardigan to bring him closer. ". . . I was with a doctor . . ."  
"What? Sherlock, let go! . . . You're scaring me. I think you might need to go to the hospital," John said quickly with a frown, his doctor voice taking over. After all: his friend had just randomly keeled over, and he never ate, never slept, had a history of drug use of nicotine patch _over_-use. He expected resistance, of course.  
"The hospital!" Sherlock exclaimed to himself. "Yes, of course – where's my coat?"  
"Um, I'm not sure – it's not on the back of the door. Did you leave it at Bart's?"  
"Why would I do that?"

_One is real, one is fake. _

". . . Why would I do that . . ." Sherlock muttered to himself, recalling Moriarty's wager.

With erratic movements, he made his way towards the door, scooping up his blue dressing gown from the floor.  
"You can't go out in your – your _loungewear_!" John warned him, surprised; he obviously struggled, though, to find a word for what were essentially Sherlock's pyjamas.  
"I've been out in less!" He sniped back to his flatmate ". . . There's no time to lose, John. This could be dangerous,", as he bowled down the stairs. He almost ran fully into Moriarty.

"A bit unorthodox, isn't it?" The Irishman asked, looking Sherlock up and down judgementally. The consulting detective yelped and withdrew when he saw the man there.  
"Where did you come from?" He cried.  
"I'm the Dreamlord, am I not?" Replied Moriarty innocently, although a mischievous smile tugged around his words. "I've come to explain the rules,"  
"Rules? – Well, hurry up, then!" Sherlock replied irritably, restoring his calm and making his way to the front door. He strode boldly into the street, followed by the Dreamlord.  
"Oh, so touchy! – if you _insist_, although I'd love to draw it out, watch you suffer a bit longer . . . Watch you _burn_,"  
"Yes, yes – now, before John comes out here," Sherlock snapped, not caring for Moriarty's spiel.  
"Two worlds. If you die in the dream, you wake up in reality. If you die in reality-"  
"You die, _obviously_. What, so this is all a ploy to get me to kill myself, is it? '_Suicide of genius'_, all over the front page? – I don't know how you're doing this - I don't know what you've done, but I'm not going to kill myself, and that's _final_. There's nothing you could say or do to make me pick between the two worlds – after all, can't I live in both?"  
"I'll remind you that you're forty minutes from a planet in the TARDIS as we speak, and in this reality. . ." He smirked, "Well, let's say, you're in a little bit of trouble, _my dear_,"  
"What do you mean, 'trouble'? . . . And why would I leave my coat at Bart's?"  
"Oh, I don't know! I can't read your mind! I only see your dreams, Sherlock. And control them . . . But if you wouldn't leave it behind in real life . . ." He paused theatrically, ". . .This must be the dream, right?"

Obviously angry and frustrated, Sherlock swiftly approached Moriarty, his fists clenched. He stared down into the Irishman's eyes, fuming.  
"Ooh . . . Temper, temper!" Commented the Dreamlord, "Now, about that trouble I mentioned earlier . . ."

Sirens blared from the end of Baker Street, police cars approaching all of a sudden, as if from nowhere. Sherlock gasped, and looked back to Moriarty, who was smiling gleefully.  
Sherlock noticed that, yet again, he felt a little bit faint. His eyelids felt heavy; his mind moved slowly, and he was drowsy.

"Feeling a bit sleepy, Sherlock? That'll be the sirens, they're quite the lullaby, I've heard,"  
Sherlock tried to focus on Moriarty, but with a snigger, he vanished into thin air.

John came bowling out of 221 at that precise moment, with more than a few questions. Sherlock stumbled over to him, his fatigue setting in, and gripped his shoulders.  
"We need to get a cab, John. To the hospital. Away from the sirens," He mumbled, shaking his head to try and rouse himself.  
"Why do you need to get away from the sirens? You need a lie down, mate,"  
"No!" Sherlock's eyes were wide and wild, and he was insistent. "No, I can't-"

He saw police officers get out of their cars, brandishing weapons, all pointed at him.  
"Sherlock Holmes! Give yourself up!"  
"What?" Asked Sherlock and John, simultaneously, both spinning to face the police cars, whose sirens had all been switched off now. Sherlock immediately felt more alert.  
At the front of the pack, Lestrade, reluctantly, spoke with a megaphone: "You're wanted on suspicion of terrorism,"  
"That's berserk!" John yelled back to him, annoyed, "This guy? A _terrorist_? He works with the bloody police, for God's sake!"  
"John . . ." Sherlock murmured, clearing his throat, "I think I may have been set up,"  
"No shit," John whispered back, but Sherlock cut him off. "But why-?"  
"I can't explain now. We need to get away. Do you trust me?" Sherlock insisted.  
"Get on the ground, now!" Lestrade commanded, his tone a little more forceful now.  
". . . Of course," John replied.

Suddenly, there was an explosion from 221b. A massive shockwave hit everyone in the street, deafening and bruising, throwing them all to the floor. There was no noise, for a few minutes: there wasn't even screaming, or whining, or crying. Everyone had been knocked out. Everyone slept. In the background, there were sirens.

Sherlock Holmes had fallen asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

_**AN: **_**Thanks a she****d-load for all the support! Here's your Monday update, and let me know what you think :) **

**Special mentions for CheyanneChika, AnonymousAngel and raindeerbear. Cheers! - B. **

* * *

Sherlock woke up with a start, sitting up and gasping. He found the Doctor standing nearby, and thought he'd heard him talking to someone, before rushing to his side.

Sherlock gripped the tweed jacket the Timelord wore, and looked him solemnly in the eye.  
"Doctor!" He choked out.  
"Okay, okay – you're back in the TARDIS now. Try not to fall asleep again," He advised helpfully.  
"No – I can't – in the other world – there was a _bomb_! I could be hurt, and John-"  
"Who's John?" The Doctor inquired with a frown, feeling Sherlock's brow. The genius batted his hand away, and frowned.  
"He's . . . He's a Doctor," Sherlock recalled.  
". . . Sherlock, I'm not sure-" The Doctor began cautiously.  
"Not sure of what?" Sherlock asked, sounding accusatory.  
"This John, who's a doctor . . ." He said tentatively, "Well, he could easily be an invention – remember, you have a Doctor in this world, in the real world, who sometimes goes by 'John'. . . "

Sherlock rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. How could he have _missed _that? Of course he was an invention!  
"Of course . . . My subconscious is probably just filling in a companion for me . . ."  
"Hey, watch it, Sherly – you're _my _companion, _not _the other way around," The Doctor finally smiled, his hard, concerned face softening with a friendly glow.

"You know, I hate to break up this heart-warming conversation and everything," Came a hollow Irish drawl from nearby, "But you now have thirty-three minutes until impact. Looks like this dream's in real time, Sherlock!" Moriarty had reappeared, out of thin air, once again.  
"So you're saying _this _is the dream now, are you?" Sherlock asked, shooting up from the floor and pointing a demanding finger at the Dreamlord.  
"I'm not saying anything, Sherlock," Moriarty smirked, "But I am _telling _you that your prospects aren't good, in either world – oh dear!" He clapped his hands to the sides of his face in an expression of mock surprise and shock.

"What am I supposed to do about it here? I don't know what you expect me to do-" Sherlock frantically reasoned with the madman.  
"Can't your Doctor fix it all? – Or is he just a figment of your imagination? Do you have to fix it yourself?" Moriarty asked him. ". . . Can you help yourself?" He asked, suddenly serious.  
"I don't know how it works – Doctor, do you have any idea at all of how to fix this?"  
"I've sent out a distress signal, and I've come up with a plan," The Doctor said confidently, pulling on his jacket to straighten it out. He eyed Moriarty suspiciously as he spoke.  
"Which is?"  
"Um, which is, to come up with a plan . . ." He frowned, looking a bit put out.  
"You have no idea, do you?" Sherlock asked frankly.  
"Not the foggiest. But-"

"Whoa there! All this chat, I think it's time for another rest, isn't it, Sherlock?" Moriarty interjected, unhelpfully, almost eliciting a growl from Sherlock, "After all, it's been a few minutes. Maybe you're ready to review the situation in the other world? The aftermath of the bomb? I do hope no one blames you for that! – Oh, wait! They all think you're a terrorist! My mistake,"

Sherlock began to hear sirens once more, and like clockwork, his limbs became unfeasibly heavy. He gripped once more at the Doctor's shoulders, leaning on the shorter man.  
"Can you hear them? The sirens?"  
"No, that's – that's not good-" The Doctor struggled, but managed to reach his sonic screwdriver as he sat the consulting detective down on the leather car seat. He scanned him, flicking the gadget up and down and reviewing the results.  
"Yes, just as I suspected," The Doctor murmured to himself.  
"What is it?" Sherlock said, sounding drunk with drowsiness, as he frowned to focus on the screwdriver.  
"This is _very extremely _not good," The Doctor revised.  
"Oh, thanks . . . That's . . . _Reassuring_ . . ."

He couldn't even hear his own words, for the blaring of the sirens. They encompassed everything, they _were_ everything, and they soothed him to sleep with their aggressive, overpowering whines.

* * *

Sherlock woke unable to hear for a few seconds. He felt some sort of contact with his face . . . Gravel . . . Or, _rubble_ . . . From the _explosion_ . . . Damn! The explosion-

His ears rang gradually louder, as his hearing came back to him. He used one of his hands to brush the stone and dust from his face and eyelids before he opened them up. He was flat on his back, still hideously winded from being blown backwards onto the tarmac of the road, and staring dumbly through the veil of smoke up at the grey sky.

. . . He wasn't alone.

. . . The police . . . His flat got blown up . . . They were all set to blame _him_. . .

Eventually, he realised that he'd better make a move before the police did. He rolled onto his side, complaining with a stifled groan at his stiff limbs. It looked as if, miraculously, he'd escaped major injury, although his head hurt, and he had a few minor scrapes. There were several holes ripped in his second-favourite dressing gown.

His hearing returned, in time hear the safety of a gun clicking off.

He heard, before he saw, the gun in question. He quickly sat up, and looked up to the marksman.  
"John? What are you-?"  
"You _bombed _our _flat_!" John yelled, seething with rage. His face was granite-hard, and his eyes burning blue.  
"For goodness – _no_, I did not!" Sherlock insisted, yelling due to his poor hearing as well as his anger.  
"So, what? The police just _happen _to turn up on Baker Street, _bomb squad in tow_, accusing you of being a bomber, and someone's just _happened _to bomb our flat?"  
"Yes! I've been set up, John!" Sherlock told him, almost pleading, and feeling utterly ashamed of himself for stooping so low as to do so.  
"I don't buy it," John dismissed, though his voice shook slightly. To regain composure, he shifted slightly, adjusting his stance.  
"I don't have time for this-" Sherlock hissed as he made to get up, but John gestured with the gun to remain seated. The consulting detective put his hands up, and stood up anyway.  
"You'd better explain pretty fast, Sherlock. Police backup will be here soon," John pointed out.  
"I don't really know myself – I . . . Look. Something incredibly bad is going on, and I need to get somewhere safe. But I'm going to need your help to get through this, Doctor. You suggested the hospital before – I presume that means I've got to go there, if this is the dream . . ." He said, mainly to himself, after a while.  
"You're awake mate, trust me," John said wearily. For a tense moment, Sherlock thought he was about to grab him and turn him in.

But he just sighed. Sherlock lowered his hands, breathing a sigh of relief.

"What the bloody hell have you gotten yourself into this time, Sherlock?" John asked in a pained voice. He flicked the safety off again.  
"I don't know, Doctor. But you must have known something was up – you brought your gun," Sherlock mentioned.  
"Yeah, well, any time you start asking weird questions and behaving more unusually than normal, I know I'll be needing my gun soon," He looked behind him, at the police officers that were coming to or, more alarmingly, failing to do so. "And why do you keep calling me 'Doctor'?"  
Sherlock paused, slightly puzzled. "I . . . I'm not-"

That was when the sirens began.

Sherlock's eyes widened, bulging as he recognised the signal instantly. He grabbed John's arm, dragging him towards an alleyway across the street, and into it. John seemed a little caught out.  
"Mind your feet on the broken glass! You need to get some shoes! And some clothes - I mean, this is all a bit Arthur Dent, isn't it?" He said, and though Sherlock didn't turn around, he frowned and made a face at the cultural reference which, of course, he didn't understand.  
""There's no time for shoes, John," He replied, "We need to get somewhere safe, we've wasted enough time!"  
"The hospital?"  
"Indeed," Sherlock replied, looking all around. It seemed the road this alleyway led to had an abundance of cabs. He blinked several times, very deliberately, as the sirens approached once more.

"They're catching up," John observed.  
"Yes, thanks for that – I have to figure out who's doing this before another bomb goes off, and I'm listening to you stating the obvious!"  
"Fine! If you don't want my help-"  
"No, John, wait-" He grabbed his arm again, and pulled him close. He levelled his eyes to his companion's. "John, listen very carefully. I can't explain why, but whenever I hear sirens . . . I'm going to fall asleep. It looks like I can fight it for a little while, but before it happens, you need to find me a safe place to sleep,"  
"Sherlock, this makes no sense-" John began to complain.  
"What did you say before? About trusting me?" Sherlock demanded, his eyes desperate – so desperate that John felt, somehow, that he was telling the truth.  
"I said I _did_, but-"  
"Good! A cab will do this time around," With that, Sherlock ran down the alleyway, grazes covering his bare feet, but he ignored them. He felt very drowsy, and the adrenaline was beginning to not be enough to sustain him anymore.

John stoically set off behind h9s flatmate, already wishing for this debacle to be over.  
"Taxi!"

They bundled into the vehicle, panting after their running and rushed conversations. Sherlock finally relaxed, in the knowledge that they were _slightly _more safe than they'd been at the site of the explosion. He allowed himself to drift off, while John fussed over the grazes on his arms and face. He closed his eyes peacefully.

"Where to, boys?" Asked the cab driver in an Irish accent.

Sherlock's eyes flew open for about half a second.  
". . . No . . .!"

But it was too late.


	4. Chapter 4

_**It's Monday . . . **_

**Special thanks to my reviewers: Sir Bookworm, DalekCyberAngel, Green-Eyed Mermaid and CheyanneChika. **

**You guys have really encouraged me to write, despite my current addiction to my Supernatural box set. Who knows? Maybe one day I'll write a Superwholock. It's safe to say, I'm pretty obsessed with it. But I'm no way giving up on this! **

**Cheers! - B. **

* * *

_Oh, good. _

The familiar blue lights, green lights, orange lights and who cares what colour the lights were he was stuck in a cab _with his worst enemy_-

"You're back," The Doctor commented from afar.

Sherlock, uncharacteristically, had completely failed to link the colour of the lights he was viewing to the TARDIS interior; indeed, he'd even failed to link them to the correct world . . . The one with the Doctor . . . The world he'd been so sure was _real_ . . .

He blinked hard, and widened his eyes, in an attempt to restore his state of wakefulness properly.  
"Where is he?" He demanded.  
"Disappeared. Just . . . Gone," The Doctor said, knowing he meant Moriarty. Sherlock noted that he couldn't see the Timelord. He stood up, legs slightly shaky from adrenaline: the sort you get after waking from a nightmare when you're trying to convince yourself it's not true. Exactly that sort of adrenaline, and fear.

He walked to the barrier, following the sound of the Doctor's voice, and looked down: the Doctor was down in the gut of the great time-and-space ship, tinkering with wires, oil smeared on his face. His hair was in tufts, and his face older than Sherlock had ever seen it.

"For what purpose? Why did he just go?" Sherlock called down.  
"Now, if there's _any _chance I could reroute the gravity circuits, perhaps make them _anti _-gravity, maybe we'll be propelled _away_ from the planet, rather than honing in and crashing into it – maybe, perhaps-"  
"Doctor," Sherlock interrupted with a voice full of warning. He was being ignored.  
"I mean, we'd end up floating through space, but space is big, and space is just _full _of people these days – honestly! – now, if I could just reverse the polarity of the neutron flow-  
"Doctor, why did he leave?" He heard the Doctor take a breath to interrupt him with techno-babble again, but he'd had enough: running down the stairs to the area below the console, he vaulted the barrier, bypassing the last two steps, and landing as best as he could near the Doctor, who jumped in surprise.

He leant forward, his eyes wide, and staring into the old man's. The muscles around those eyes twitched, and the Timelord could see desperation in their depths.

"I'm in danger, you're a Doctor. Help me out,"  
"I'm _the _Doctor, Sherlock," He corrected, waving a spanner in Sherlock's face for emphasis. Sherlock frowned briefly, not understanding his own slip of the tongue, but then shook his head and snatched the tool.  
"Semantics!" He chided. "In the other world. I'm in danger, _he's _there, he's driving my cab and I fell asleep! I'm asleep in the back of the cab, and John's there, and we're both in danger because that _madman's _at the wheel-"

He stopped himself, sighing swiftly, and tugging his own hair. He chose to try and calm himself by sitting back in a hanging seat, not unlike the one the Doctor was sitting in to perform his repairs and reprogramming. But he wasn't tinkering any more: he was looking Sherlock in the face, narrow-eyed as he tried to decode some unknown mystery.

"Sherlock . . . The other world," He began cautiously.  
"Yes?" Sherlock asked wearily. He was sick of this game, and it hadn't even been going on that long.  
"You do remember . . . That it isn't real?"

Sherlock blinked. He dug his nails into his own hands, as they balled into fists. How could he be so stupid? Of _course _it wasn't real, but it just felt . . . It just _felt- _

"How can you be sure, Doctor?" He whispered, and there was a long, uncomfortable silence in which the Doctor sought eye contact with the sleuth, and the latter avoided it like the plague. But when the Timelord crept forward, and took Sherlock's hand in his own, Sherlock couldn't afford to ignore him any longer. Confused, he watched, near catatonic with indecision, as the Doctor placed his hand on his chest. For a brief moment, he felt the Timelord's heart, left of centre, before his hand was moved to the right.

There was another heart. The second heart.

"Now," The Doctor said in a soothing, comforting voice that was almost intoxicating, "Tell me that's not real, eh, Sherly?"

Sherlock, despite himself, couldn't even raise a smirk at the Doctor's soppy heart-to-heart attempt. His face remained an impassive mask, and his only reply was,  
"But it felt real _there_, too,"

The Doctor put his hand back on his lap, and stood up fully. His face aged in that moment; it went grey, it lost a portion of its former hope, as he turned away. Sherlock saw him fiddle with his bow-tie, even from behind.

"I'll get on with the gravity circuits, then,"  
"Doctor, be rational," Sherlock reminded him, but it sounded more like h was begging.  
"I _am_ rational," The Timelord told him, swiftly turning around again, his eyes blazing in anger, "I'm trying at least, because this is what I wanted to avoid," He was shaking slightly, "This is what he told me he was going to do, Sherlock, and he can't. You can't let him do it,"  
"Can't let him do what?" Sherlock asked urgently, standing up.  
The urgency was with good reason: like a whisper, like a murmur, the drone started up; it was impossible to tell when it began, but it did, and it just kept on increasing, and increasing, and whining and whining and _whining!_  
"You can't let him convince you that the other world is real, Sherlock. That John is real,"  
"Why not? What if he is? What if Moriarty lied? What if he lied, to _you_?" Sherlock quizzed, half-angry that the Doctor could be so easily taken in, but half afraid: the Doctor wasn't easily fooled, no one could lie to him and get away with it.

Well . . . _Perhaps_ no one. Perhaps no one, _except_ Moriarty. And what the Dreamlord had told him was:  
"You can't believe in the other world, or in John . . . It's suicide, Sherlock. It's all just dreams, and fantasy, and what you always wanted when you were back on Earth, unhappy and begging me to help you escape,"  
"How do I know you're not just a fantasy, Doctor? Here to take me away, to live my _wildest _dreams? What if the key to this is to die here, not there?" Sherlock sniped, the nasty edge to his voice hiding his utter petrifaction at his unusual quandary.  
"_No_! I will _not_ let you die – not another one, not _you-_" The Doctor insisted to the detective, who was fighting his own drooping eyelids.

But Sherlock never had long. Every time, he had less time in this world, and more time in the other – in the dream – in the other world – in this dream –

- and it was getting harder to tell the difference between being reality, and dreaming.

* * *

"_Stop the cab!_"

Sherlock immediately tugged at the door handle, opening up the door onto the street before the vehicle had even stopped. John yelled something at him, but all he was interested in was getting the other man out of the car after him. There was nowhere more dangerous to be.

As soon as the doctor was stumbling onto the pavement, Sherlock rushed to the driver's window, and banged on it hard. The window rolled down and there, with a flat cap and thick coat on, was a grinning Moriarty.

"No charge!"

And then he disappeared.

Sherlock was left breathing heavily, shaking his head; his eyes were wide in fear and confusion, staring at the place where the Dreamlord had been sitting just a second ago.

"What the hell-"  
"It was Moriarty, John – he was driving our cab, we could have been _killed_!"  
"Who-" John began, even more confused than Sherlock himself, but yet again was interrupted.  
"No time. We need to get indoors, somewhere where the sirens can't find us . . ."

He trailed off, looking all about: suddenly, there was no traffic on the street, leaving Sherlock to question if this was because people in the nearby area had been evacuated due to the bomb threats, of whether it had happened because he was, in fact, dreaming; in a dream, nothing was logical. Nothing had to make sense.

He observed the street signs, then cursed himself, as the sirens wailed somewhere in the background. He shook his head, trying to clear his perception, as he realised where he must go.

"Come on John, the nearest place is Molly's. She'll be in, she works the graveyard shift, she won't leave for work for another hour,"

And with that, he was gone; running fast, his bare feet reddening against the concrete, pain accompanying the unsightly damage. He was much faster than John, as usual, so when he found the appropriate fire escape – coming in through the front door would be a risk, he _was _a wanted terrorist, apparently – John wasn't there yet.

And so, when he found that Moriarty himself appeared in front of him on the iron steps, he had no backup; no witnesses.  
"They say, Sherlock, that you know you're not dreaming when you feel pain," He informed him conversationally.  
Sherlock, dumbstruck, looked down at his ragged feet, and realised that they hurt.  
"Well, I wouldn't put it past _you _to make me hurt even when I'm dreaming," He sneered back, his voice full of breathless bravado.  
"Oh, that's another thing!" Moriarty said, as if he'd remembered something, his smile increasing in maliciousness and in size, "Who _am _I Sherlock?"  
"What? . . . I don't see-" Sherlock spluttered.  
"You will. Soon,"

"Sherlock!"  
In the split second that Sherlock looked away from the Dreamlord to see John running towards him, the Irishman had disappeared. Sherlock floundered for a second.  
"Why are you standing here? Come on, hurry up!" John demanded, uncharacteristically: it was usually Sherlock commanding John to keep up.  
"Right this way,"

Sherlock leapt the stairs, four at a time, eager to get to the top floor, where Molly resided. As he ran, he was unnervingly aware of the pain he was experiencing from his bare feet. _What if Moriarty was right? What if this isn't a dream at all? After all, I've been here much longer than I have in the TARDIS-_

_No. Moriarty lies. That's what he does. Remember the Doctor's words.  
He said he was going to try and make me kill myself, to stay in this world. I can't let that happen. _

Of course, when they did reach the top floor, the doors were unhelpfully locked. Thankfully, the window into Molly's tiny, cluttered kitchen was open. Sherlock turned to John:  
"Go on, then,"  
"What?"  
"I'll never get through there, clearly the logical course of action is for you to climb through the window," He explained, hoping John would buy the theory.  
John sighed, but glanced nervously at the ground, and out into the street. Sherlock didn't have to look: he was acutely aware of the volume of the approaching sirens.  
"A please would be nice," The doctor muttered eventually, and begrudgingly, forfeiting his dignity in a way that Sherlock would have found amusing at any other time, climbed through the small window, head first. Sherlock listened carefully, and after a short period of time, heard a clatter as John ungracefully landed on the kitchen floor. The lock of the door clicked, and finally, it was open.

Sherlock rushed through, calling, "Molly?"  
"A 'thank you' would be nice," John muttered, but the sleuth ignored him.

Leaving the kitchen, Sherlock paced into the front room, leaving grit and tiny drops of blood on the carpet, and saw Molly. Her armchair was faced away from him, and she was engrossed in what looked to be a soppy hospital drama: _"Choose **me**. Love **me**." _The bland yet pretty actress begged the male model moonlighting as an actor.

"Molly?" He asked a final time. She jumped spectacularly, and Sherlock noticed too late that she was holding a cup of tea: the liquid lapped over the sides and onto her white t-shirt. She gave a high-pitched yelp of surprise.  
"Sherlock! W–what are you doing here? – and _look at you!_" She asked, setting down the tea-drenched mug and standing up to face him.  
"We need your help," John replied, stepping from behind Sherlock and giving the sleuth a withering look that said, _well done, genius._ She fidgeted, acutely aware that she was wearing her pyjamas in the presence of _Sherlock,_ of all people. However, she was even more surprised when she noticed that he too was wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown.  
". . . What with . . .?" She asked cautiously.

Sherlock rushed past her, leaving John to explain, though the doctor didn't have a clue where to start. He dashed for the remote control, changing the channel, and muttering, "Sorry, Molly. Have to interrupt your mediocre programme to watch the news . . ."

He flicked idly through the channels, trying to find any news of the explosion on Baker Street, or of any prior explosions he could have been accused of. The noise of numerous half-words uttered by people on the TV, as their channels were picked and discarded rapidly, punctuated John's forced explanation.  
"There was . . ." He sighed, then gestured as he spoke , in an effort to make himself seem less crazy. "There was an explosion at Baker Street,"  
"Oh my God! Are you both okay? You look awful! Sherlock, your feet-!"  
"Don't worry; you can lend me some of Jim's old socks. I'm presuming you kept them, you always were sentimental, Molly,"  
"I don't-"  
"Anyway," John interrupted, frowning at Sherlock, "We think Sherlock's been set up for the explosion,"  
"Who would _do _that?" Molly asked, horrified.  
"Obvious," Sherlock muttered to himself.

As if on cue, he flicked past a channel that disturbed him very much: nevertheless, he had to flick back, his jaw slack with surprise, and his eyes wide.  
"Sherlock?" John asked warily.  
"Who . . . What-" Sherlock stuttered, physically drawing away from the television, but unable to stop watching.

He stared at the screen, and staring back at him, reflected in his eyes, was the bright, happy smiling face of a children's TV presenter. But Sherlock didn't know him as anything other than _Moriarty. Consulting Dreamlord. _

_Hello boys and girls! Are you ready for the story? _

"Sherlock . . ." John asked, his eyes flicking between the screen and Sherlock's pale, pallid face, ". . . Why are you watching Richard Brook?"

_This is the story of Sherlock's Choice! . . ._

* * *

READERSHIP: I regret to inform you that the next instalment may be delayed for personal reasons. Sorry for any inconvenience caused. I'll get on it as soon as I feel able to write it as well as you deserve me to. I apologise profusely :(


	5. Chapter 5

_**AN: **_**I'm incredibly sorry for the large gap between updates. Personal problems have kept me from being able to write as well as I'd like to, and I think it's not fair on you lovely people if you don't get the best possible story out of me! Indeed, sixth form has been heavy-going, too. But in two weeks time, it's the holidays, so I'll have much more time to write! This should be finished soon, anyway. **

**Thanks a BUNCH for all the positive reviews, alerts and favourites - I'm chuffed, really! That's you, raindeerbear, DalekCyberAngel, Neiraaa, CheyanneChika, Thisby Solo (oh my god I love your work!1!1!), and madTARDIStraveller - 'Wholock at its best' is an amazing compliment, in particular! Okay, enough already, too many shout-outs. **

**Cheers! - B. **

* * *

Sherlock noticed that John and Molly weren't moving – well, not that they weren't simply moving about, but that they'd completely ceased any sort of movement. Shifting. Breathing. Blinking. And that the lights had flickered off, interfered with in some way. However the Dreamlord was doing this to him – reality or not – it was bound to be incredibly scientifically complex. Sherlock, through his fear and shock, found himself wanting to be able to study the phenomena that was his current situation; to take a step back, and run through it in slow motion, revealing the mechanisms through which Moriarty was working.

The lights had gone out in the flat, leaving only the watery grey light from outside to filter in through slowly-decomposing net curtains – and, of course, the hideously bright light from the TV screen, where Moriarty's slick-haired, simply-dressed visage was staring eagerly out at him.

"There once was a man called Sherlock Holmes who thought he was just _so clever!_" Moriarty exclaimed, his face screwing up in a childish display of disgust.

Sherlock bared his teeth at the screen without even meaning to. The wide, brown taunting eyes of the Dreamlord stared back at him, full of mocking hollowness. His face was reflected back in those eyes.

"He boasted about it all the time, to _everyone_ – even his doctor friend, who was just as clever as him, if not more! In all honesty, his doctor friend was _sick _of it, and sick of _him_.  
"Then, one day, a Dreamlord was wondering past Sherlock, and heard him boasting about just how intelligent he really was. Now, the Dreamlord, children, is a very sly man. He decides that Sherlock needs a telling-off. He said, 'Sherlock, you're clever enough to tell the difference between being awake and being asleep, aren't you?'  
"Sherlock said, 'Yes, of course I can! Are you _stupid?_', and looked down his nose at the Dreamlord. The Dreamlord didn't like it at all – not one bit!  
"So, he used his magical powers to transport Sherlock to a magical world, full of aliens, and planets, and spaceships. They, he took him to a very normal world, that _looked _more like real life.  
"Then, the Dreamlord asked him, 'Which one of these worlds in real? Are you awake, or asleep?'  
"Sherlock scratched his head, and thought about it for a moment. He looked around, and he saw lots of things that made sense, and lots of things that didn't. So, guess what the great Sherlock Holmes said, children?"

Sherlock had stopped breathing; he could feel his hands shaking. How could he be dreaming right now, when this felt _so real_? But what about Molly and John? How could they have stopped? How could time just _stop_? The clock didn't tick, the sirens didn't blare, the wind didn't batter the windows outside; the rain was still in the air.  
"Sherlock said, 'I don't know anymore. I can't choose', and begged the Dreamlord to tell him the answer, and send him back home . . . But it was too late. He'd thought the Dreamlord was stupid, so he decided not to send him home. He chose to leave him there forever and a day, unable to tell if this world was real or made up . . . If he was awake, or dreaming.  
"And you know what?"

Sherlock jumped, as the storyteller's eyes made contact with his own, as if he were staring from the screen directly at him, about to reach out of the screen, to pull him into the storybook universe, to leave him there _forever and a day – _

"He's still there. _And he deserves it_,"

As if he had been slapped in the face, Sherlock's whole head jerked to one side, and he screwed his eyes shut. _This is not real. This . . . Is _not _real . . . ?_

"I wouldn't have thought you'd be interested in children's TV, I must admit,"  
Molly's surprised yet shy voice was audible to him, eventually, and he opened his eyes. He observed his friends, if, indeed, they were real: they'd began to move again, and the sirens had started up far away. They were waiting for his answer. Why _was _he interested in Richard Brook?

"Because that is _not _Richard Brook. That is a very dangerous – well, I'd say _man,_" He added, interrupting himself. The programme had changed, and the Dreamlord was no longer staring back at him.  
"If he's not a man, then what is he?" Molly asked, her faith in Sherlock's intellect never waning. John raised an eyebrow, obviously still going along with Sherlock's fantastical ideas, but more sceptical than Molly. After all – he was the only one in the room that wasn't wearing pyjamas and perhaps the only one thinking straight.  
"Dangerous, like I said. Please, _do _keep up," Sherlock drawled.  
"Oh, so it's not enough that you're being _pursued_, and that you want free refuge in my flat, but you also reserve the right to be rude to me?" Molly asked, her tone very annoyed. "Seriously, Sherlock, sometimes I don't even – I don't even remember why I – you're just – so . . ." She sighed, and finished: ". . . _Mean_,"

Sherlock looked at her, dumbfounded. He hadn't meant to be mean to Molly. He just thought it might be more helpful if he didn't have to repeat himself. . . But clearly, he was mean. He was cruel to her, and almost as a means of punishment, the sirens began to come closer.

That was when it struck him.

This wasn't just about Moriarty having fun, playing with him for his own amusement . . . This was, in a twisted way, to teach him a lesson . . . Just like the storyteller had said . . .

_". . . He chose to leave him there forever and a day, unable to tell if this world was real or made up_ . . ."

That was how this ended, then. Unless Sherlock made a choice, unless he chose one world over the other, London over the TARDIS or the other way round, he would be stuck. He would, effectively, be dead in both worlds. The TARDIS would crash into the planet, killing its occupants and himself; in this world, as the ever-nearer sirens made clear, he couldn't evade the police forever. He'd rot in prison, maybe even die there, and he'd no doubt lose John, and Molly, and everyone else he knew and loved here forever.

In a way, it didn't matter if he was asleep, or awake, because the outcome was negative in both worlds: in the TARDIS world, he would die a horrific, painful death, and kill many, many people; in this world, he would personally suffer greatly, undoubtedly – but it would be much, _much _worse for the people like John and Molly who knew and loved him, and kept faith in him, even when there was a huge mountain of evidence to suggest that he was, in fact, a bomber. They'd be vilified: _you believed in Sherlock Holmes. The murderer, the bomber, the psychopath. You helped him, liked him, supported him. You're monsters too. _

Which would he prefer?

That was the real game, he realised. That was his real choice. Save a planet, or spare his friends.

Sherlock turned to John, his eyelids drooping with the tiredness the sirens brought, and opened his mouth to explain that he was about to fall asleep, but John just nodded in understanding before he could say a word.  
"Don't worry, Sherlock. You sleep – we'll get you to the hospital when you wake up,"

Sherlock grimaced: he wasn't just facing this alone, but with John, faithful John, by his side. He wondered what he'd done, in this world, to deserve such a companion. He wondered just how bad life would be for this man, should he be publicly convicted. Because he knew he'd never stop trying to prove that Sherlock was a good man, and he knew he'd suffer because of that.

He couldn't tell him how sorry he was, so he just nodded, and mumbled, "Thank you," And allowed himself to slide to one side, his heavy head propped against the back of Molly's armchair. He thought he heard her sigh, or ask why or how he fell asleep at such a time; he knew he heard John tell her to be quiet, and just wait for him to come back.

* * *

"Oh, good. You're back. Please, no comments about the eyebrows, they got burnt off again by a minor explosion in the gravity circuits,"

Sherlock's brow furrowed: he had no idea how the Doctor knew he was awake when he hadn't even realised it himself yet, let alone opened his eyes or got around to moving from the awkward position he was sat in in the hanging seat. Honestly, with no muscle tone, it was a miracle he'd managed to stay upright.

Eventually, when he stretched out and jumped down from the hanging seat, he asked,  
"So . . . It didn't work, then," He surmised without being told; his voice was sombre, and grey. He didn't think he'd ever heard himself speak with less emotion – especially not about something that could kill him, like a failed attempt to stop the ship crashing into a planet. He couldn't think about that now. His mind was with John, and Molly. If he was a sentimental man, he'd have said his heart was far away, in another world, where he was lying on a sofa with a blanket gently draped around him by a pair of nervous, small hands.

The Doctor didn't answer, just looked ashamedly at him for a brief moment. His face was blackened with soot on the nose, but Sherlock didn't feel particularly amused by this. Not even the fact that his eyebrows were now non-existent.

"You'll think of something. You always do," Sherlock said neutrally, his thoughts elsewhere despite the incredible danger the two of them were in. He suddenly noticed how extremely hot he was, and squirmed slightly. He figured that the engine must have overheated during the Doctor's attempts to rewire it, so he left the bowels of the ship, and walked back up to the console.

Burt when he got there, he was just as hot as before.  
"Why is it so hot, Doctor?" He asked, cautiously.  
"We're close, now," The last Timelord whispered.  
". . . Close to the planet," Sherlock discerned.  
". . . Yes," The Doctor replied after a brief pause, walking up the stairs to meet Sherlock in the console room. Sherlock noticed that his jacket was gone, his sleeves were rolled up, and his hair was haywire, no doubt from worried pulling and ruffling. ". . . I'm sorry,"

Sherlock looked down.  
"I always knew it could end like this," Sherlock told him, "I knew it was dangerous, and I didn't care. You _said _dangerous, and here I am. But it's better this way than overdosing in my flat in London, or worse, dying of old age, without ever having seen any of this," The Doctor smiled softly, and nodded, looking at the ground.  
"Do you remember when we met, at St. Barts? And I knew about your military service? How you'd lost loads of friends, companions, how you'd been injured and invalided home from Afghanistan-"  
"-Sherlock?"  
"What?" Sherlock asked. He'd been trying his best at make a nice speech that would make the Doctor feel better about what was happening – after all, he'd learned a while back that other people often needed placating when they felt sad, with a happy memory or reminiscence – and he'd been interrupted. What had he done wrong?  
". . . I've never been to Afghanistan,"  
"No, you – you served there,"  
"My war . . . Was the Time War,"  
". . . I don't – no, no, you . . . I . . ."

He felt, again, as if he'd been slapped in the face. His face jerked to one side, and his stuttering halted as he felt the pain: he'd never known emotions to have this effect on him, to make him feel so powerless, so out of control, so _hurt_. What was happening to him? He couldn't even remember the details of his best, and only, friend's life. The war, _all the wars_, that had stripped him of so much.

He knew he was insensitive, but he'd never known himself to forget something so vital. After all, how could he perceive the Doctor correctly if he couldn't even remember the even that had most scarred him?

He shrugged off his suit jacket and let it quietly fall to the floor. He undid his shirt cuffs, and emulated the Doctor's action of rolling his sleeves off. He felt a sheen of sweat on his own face, both from the heat and the fear he'd felt at not even being able to remember basic details about his friend.

The other world had taken over; it was hard to concentrate on this world anymore. And that was terrifying.

He crept over to the door of the TARDIS, ignoring the Doctor's questioning, ". . . Sherlock?"

He reached the door, after gently treading his way down the ramp and up to the old blue wood, and put his palm on it. It was warm, which was unpleasant in the current temperatures he was experiencing, but he chose to do what he did next anyway:

He moved his face closer to the frosted glass windows, and looked through; he really widened his eyes, wanting just a minute to see what was outside, and how close it now was.

It must have been close, because all he could see, all of a sudden, was a glimpse of bright white light; then, it was gone: he could see the planet, impossibly huge, in vague outline.

_Not long now_, he thought.

He knew there would never be a way to survive in this world, without killing himself in the other world. He needed to let one of them go, before it was too late in both of them.

Which was kinder, which crueller? Which logical, and which dictated by his own selfishness, or worse, his emotions? He needed to make his choice.  
He didn't have long left.

* * *

**Read and review, naturally, if you please :) **


	6. Chapter 6

_**AN: Sorry for being such a neglectful writer! Thankfully, Sixth form is out for summer, so I'll have more time. As you may have seen, I've updated The Lupine Treaty, and intend to continue with that once this is finished (which will be soon -please, don 't sound so disappointed!). **_

_**Anyway. So, the choice. Let me know what you think! **_

_**Cheers - B. **_

* * *

"I've made my decision, Doctor,"

The Doctor's head lifted slowly up, his eyes looking down at Sherlock warily.  
"And what exactly have you decided?" He asked softly.  
"I . . . don't know if I should tell you," Sherlock told him, but he wasn't really speaking to him; he was thinking out loud.  
"Why not? You've not had issues with trust so far – man lands in your flat in a blue box, man requests fish custard; invites you to go on intergalactic travels – and you trusted him through it all, you didn't even flinch! You trusted _me_," The Doctor laughed his way through the sentence but there was an edge of tenseness that Sherlock didn't find comforting.

"You're a smart man, Doctor," He began, then shook his head, "-well, a smart alien. The point is, you usually understand me, which is less than I can say for anyone else in my life, really. Even Mycroft is occasionally baffled by my motivations. But I cannot expect you to understand my reasoning in this case," He didn't mean to sound angry towards the end, but the whole situation was so tirelessly frustrating that he couldn't help it.  
"Then explain – come on, we've got a few minutes before we're toast, anyway,"

Sherlock sighed, and eventually drew closer to the central console. It seemed to glow less vibrantly than usual, as if it were sad. As if she knew what Sherlock was thinking; _she _understood, but it was unlikely that the Doctor could.

He rested his hands on the levers, and frowned, opening and shutting his mouth a few times as he brought together the careful words he needed. The light on the console pulsed, as if encouraging him.  
"If I tell you my choice, I could potentially endanger myself in both worlds. What if you're just a construct, created by the Dreamlord, and I tell you my plan, and he comes in and wrecks it all?"  
"You can't just keep it to yourself though, Sherlock," The Doctor persisted, approaching his friend. "A whole universe, full of millions of species with millions of members, and you can't tell one old man your choice? The most important choice you might ever make?"  
"Why does it matter? You'll just insist you're the real one anyway,"  
"Well, am I? . . . What did you decide?"

Sherlock sighed. He didn't feel ready to commit to a world, to destroy the other, but he was running out of time in both of them. It was do or die now.

"I have decided . . . If I commit to this world, I can better help you to avert this crisis. I haven't been able to focus all my attention on getting out of this situation, because of the Dreamlord's tricks, but if I'm able to stay here for good, I can find a way out of this. I know it . . . I think she agrees, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock smirked as he observed the space-and-time-ship.

The TARDIS lit up wholeheartedly at his words, the warm orange and yellow light making his squint with its unambiguous support and enthusiasm.  
"It's because she knows I'm real," The Doctor smiled, and patted the 'hot' tap on the console affectionately. Sherlock just nodded, and then looked up.

"Alright, Moriarty. I've made my choice . . ."

There weren't even any sirens this time. He just collapsed in a second; as quickly as snapping your fingers, he was out cold on the floor.

* * *

Sherlock sat up bolt upright, disentangling himself from the hideous orange blanket that'd been draped so neatly over him.  
"Are they close? "He asked, jumping to his feet and staring directly at John.  
"They're downstairs. Thank God you woke up when you did!" Molly said. John was staring oddly at Sherlock, without speaking.  
"Fire escape. Now. I need to get to the hospital,"  
"But-" John made to catch his shoulder, but Sherlock span around and caught his wrist in an uncharacteristic display of strength and fervency.  
"No, John. Don't you see? There's no time. I know what I'm doing," He insisted. He span back around, running out of Molly's kitchen and to the fire door, onto the fire escape. He had just a second to register the look of fear and surprise on John's face at his sudden driven sense of purpose. However, despite himself, the doctor had decided to follow him.

Sherlock had nothing to fear now. He ran as fast as he could up the fire escape, the sound of clanging metal as he hit each step keeping time with his racing heart. His feet didn't ache, he didn't lose his breath; he didn't stop until he reached the roof, and even then, that was just to calculate the quickest route to the hospital. It had to be the hospital.

"Sherlock, listen to me – don't go there – don't go-"  
"Come on, John! It all makes perfect sense – you're either coming with me, or you're hindering me," Sherlock explained loudly, not even looking his companion in the face, just scanning the horizon for potential ways to the hospital. _There_.

He made a run for it: fire escapes, alternate routes, hidden passages, leaps of faith and careless jumps. Sherlock had nothing to lose, after all.

John tried to keep up, but he found it hard, especially with his leg, Sherlock guessed. So, after about ten minutes of running, he looked back and couldn't see the doctor anywhere. It didn't matter. He wasn't real.

Sherlock ran down his final fire escape: now it was an all-out sprint to the hospital doors, and through the hospital itself, until he could find the roof. It had to be the roof. He ran with abandon, his dressing gown billowing behind him. He could see people pointing and shouting; the manhunt continued, even when he had long since forgotten its significance. _He's there! He's getting away!_

_He's going to do it!_

But he disregarded them as the automatic doors slid open for him sleekly, and he continued to sprint through the corridors, up a flight of stairs, through a ward.

He only spared a second to glance at who was in the rooms, and when he saw, he paused for just a second, his lips turning down at the corners.  
Moriarty was in the room he had stopped next to, his face mirthless and black, squinting its narrow eyes. The Dreamlord didn't look happy about how this was going. Sherlock smirked at him, and began to walk along the corridor again, picking up speed – every single room had Moriarty in it, in a slightly different position: running past them all in a long row was like watching a stop-motion animation. A cartoon villain watching the protagonist with interest, but without speaking. This movie was a silent one.

Sherlock eventually reached the stairs that would take him up to the roof, marked with a big 'No Entry' sign. He swiftly made his way though it, slamming the door and leaving Moriarty behind in every room of the ward – or so he thought. There, at the top of the stairs, leaning against the wall, was the Dreamlord himself. Sherlock gritted his teeth and sailed past him, navigating the steps to the roof and approaching the door out of it.

The door was warm . . . The small antechamber they sat in smelt of the TARDIS; the light was soft, and unearthly, just like hers was. The two worlds were getting more and more alike. The lines were becoming blurred. Sherlock felt his first pang of doubt since he'd woken up. Not just the fear he'd felt so far during this entire hideous ordeal: Sherlock Holmes felt _doubt_.

Moriarty didn't try and stop him as he walked through the door; he merely watched with large, glittering black eyes like black holes; his serpentine neck tilted his head in a display of curiosity. He still said nothing.

Even when Sherlock walked fervently across the roof, reached the edge, and stepped up onto the ledge, he said nothing. He appeared on the ledge, facing the opposite way to Sherlock so as to watch his face, and ignoring the significant drop to the ground behind him.

Sherlock looked down at Moriarty's face, his own face solemn. Still Moriarty said nothing. It was worse this way.  
"Well?" Sherlock hissed. Moriarty's eyes narrowed, but still he was speechless. Sherlock nodded, smirking humourlessly. "Of course . . . It's my choice. You can't intervene. I see . . ."

He looked away from the Dreamlord, and to the significant drop below. He was about to step off the ledge when he felt déjà-vu that made him do a double take. The feeling like he'd been hit in the face returned, and he almost fell by accident with the shaking shock of it.

He shook his head. These sensations . . . Were just a trick. Another trick. This wasn't real.  
Moriarty was watching with interest. So he jumped.

The air passing through his fingers was the sensation that made him think.  
So soft; it was soft as silk, and more gentle than a pre-death sensation had any right to be. But it reminded him of something.

John. John, tucking him into bed after he'd fallen asleep back at Molly's flat. John . . . Tucking him into bed . . . After he was drugged . . . By Irene Adler . . . That was back at Baker Street . . .

Those memories were real, and he didn't have them in the other world.

So this world was real.

Or, this world wasn't real, but John was.

And there John was: on the pavement, shouting without making a single noise.  
"_SHERLOCK!"_

But it was too late. Sherlock fell down. Sherlock hit the ground.

* * *

**_Ooh, the suspense. _**


	7. Chapter 7

_**AN: SURPRISE. In recompense for being so neglectful and not updating last week . . . Or, um, the week before . . . I have produced this small chapter of ~1000 words so as not to keep you on edge from that last cliffhanger. **_

_**Also, I realised I'd been rude enough not to thank my reviewers (for SHAME). So, here's the weekly 'Spare My Blushes' list: lucy macgregor, Thisby Solo (x2), Neiraaa, Steffii (aka DalekCyberAngel), and madTARDIStraveller. Thanks a bunch! **_

_**Get on with the story already! - B. **_

* * *

"_SHERLOCK!_"

_John gently touches the gravestone. Mycroft had chosen it but not without first subtly seeking John's approval. The two of them had never gotten along that well, but at times like this, petty feuds – even though they were the Holmes brothers' speciality – had to be put aside. So they'd gone with a black marble stone, shining and bright despite the lack of colour. _

_John winces at the poignancy. _

_"No one will ever convince me that you told a lie," He muttered. He began to walk away, feeling as if he were wading through some kind of bog, or quicksand – indeed, his entire life was just a never-ending marshland now. Tedious, drawn out; dragging him slowly down. He wasn't sure he'd be able to beat his fatigue to wade on. _

_"Just – one more thing," He surprises himself with the words: right from his too-human heart. "For me, Sherlock – one more miracle," _

_He reaches out to touch the gravestone one more time. The canopy of spiny leaves above him gentle wavers in the grey wind. "Don't be . . . dead," _

* * *

"He's real!"

Sherlock is lying on the TARDIS floor, staring up at the ceiling far above him, his hands draped across his chest.  
"What?" Asked the Doctor, his face suddenly appearing upside-down in the sleuth's field of vision, as he crouches by his head and looks down at his face. Sherlock huffs and pushes the Doctor out of the way, sitting up. "John. John is real,"  
"I thought . . . Sherlock, you've chosen this world," The Doctor told him, grasping a handful of Sherlock's rolled-up shirt sleeve. "It's too late to change your mind now,"

Sherlock looked down quizzically at the Timelord's hand.  
". . . What do you suppose we should do now, then?" Sherlock asked, watching the Doctor's face carefully.  
"We get out of this situation," The Doctor began, about to continue on one of his rambling stream-of-consciousness speeches when Sherlock interrupted.  
"Then?" He asked.  
"Well, one step at a time!" The Doctor urged, going to pull away from the sleuth and towards the console, but Sherlock caught his wrist quickly.  
"Humour me," Sherlock said in a low voice, which was almost a growl. The Doctor detected a hint of accusation in his words.  
". . . We'll do what we always do, Sherlock," The Doctor said, looking wildly up and down at his companion; into his opal eyes. "We'll keep travelling,"

Sherlock smirked slightly, and let go of the Doctor's arm, backing away from him. He shook his head:  
"No,"  
"What?" The Doctor asked, confused.  
"You heard perfectly well the first time, I'm not saying it again," Sherlock said in a bored tone, but there was a hint of excitement underneath it.  
"Yes, but – I don't understand, you were happy enough to travel with me before this . . . This – debacle!" He floundered for words as he continued, "It doesn't make sense for you to want to stop travelling! You're strong, Sherlock – I didn't think that this would shake you! It's illogical, it's-"  
"Christmas . . . A few subconscious clues, and some character inconsistencies? . . . It's Christmas!  
"You see, Doctor, I first had my doubts and suspicions when you said you couldn't name the planet, or even the galaxy that we're currently residing in. Usually the TARDIS will give you the specifics, but you usually are able to tell me _something _about where we've ended up. Then, there's the TARDIS itself-"  
The TARDIS light throbbed an angry red at that.  
"Excuse me, _her_self-" Sherlock corrected, with a sly smile as he looked above him at the ceiling of the time and space machine, "She doesn't have her usual rapport with you. She wouldn't take you away from here because she was trying to tell _me_ something. She wanted me not to get lost in this world. That, plus when I spoke of not trusting you, as _well_ as not trusting the other world, she appeared to encourage me,"  
"And your completely _bonkers _conclusion is?" The Doctor asked.

Sherlock had been backing towards the TARDIS door the entire time, with the Doctor edging closer.  
"That this world isn't real, either," He breathed, with wide, bright eyes. The thrill of the chase was in him; the thrill of _purpose_.  
"Sherlock," The Doctor said in a very low voice, as he reached into his inner jacket pocket, "You listen to me now. One of the worlds had to be right, and it wasn't the other world. So this must be real! Please, do _not _do something stupid, I _cannot_ lose another companion," The Doctor begged, desperation in his eyes.  
"See, that's what I thought, but then came the _last_ clue. You're right, the other world wasn't real, but I know for a _fact _that John isn't just an imagined character created by the Dreamlord. John is real. I believe in _him_. And he doesn't exist in this world, meaning that this world isn't reality, either. Oh, looking for this?" He asked lightly, after his ardent confession about his faith in John.

The Doctor, flummoxed, watched as Sherlock took the Doctor's sonic screwdriver from his jacket pocket, and waved it in his face, "I pick-pocketed you as soon as I realised _you_ weren't real, either. Now you can't lock the doors, and I'm free to leave,"  
"But you'll die! We're about to crash into a planet; you'll burn up, and suffocate! Sherlock, _I_ am real! I'm pleading with you now – the last of the Timelords to the world's only consulting detective – don't do this,"  
"Don't you see, Doctor? It's _because _you're telling me not to leave that I need to go. It's the only way of getting out of this alive . . . It's the only way to see John again,"

Sherlock opened up the TARDIS door with a flourish, and put his arm up to his face to defend himself against the wave of heat that flew in; he could still breathe and survive due to the TARDIS' oxygen shields, but as soon as he took his leap of faith, they wouldn't protect him any longer.  
"Now, what is it you always say, Doctor?" He asked, stepping to the threshold and clinging to the door to prevent himself falling out of the TARDIS prematurely.

The Doctor just shrugged. Oh, now Sherlock knewfor _sure_ that he wasn't the real Doctor. The real Doctor would know that when about to do something crazy, something stupid, and dangerous, and foolish, and brave, one should always shout:  
"_GERONIMO!" _

* * *

**_I think I might have lied about not keeping you on edge. This may actually be a worse cliffhanger than last time. Whoops, sorry! More on Monday - B. _**


	8. Chapter 8

_**AN: Wow I suck at timely updates. BUT NO MORE! Here is the final chapter of 'Sherlock's Choice'. I'm really glad that you've enjoyed it, if you have. If you haven't, sorry! **_

_**Anyway, thanks for ALL the favourites, updates, and reviews from all of your lovely people. My final list of people I'd like to thank for reviewing is as follows: Loopylucymac, Thisby Solo (I hope this update got you uncontrollably excited when it landed in your inbox), and GKingOfFez (Ah! Spare my blushes, you flatterer, you!). **_

_**So, that's it. Onwards and to the finish! - B. **_

* * *

Pain. Sharp, intense, and localised. _What have I done? _I've – oh.

_I've hit my head on the top bunk. _

"Doctor," Sherlock growled, his hand flying to his head after he sat up too sharply; he sucked in air through his teeth, and screwed his eyes shut.  
"Wahey! He's back," The Doctor's happy, friendly voice was a resoundingly positive sign. Sherlock opened his eyes to see the man himself smiling in jubilation. "How're you feeling, Sherly?"  
"Bunk-beds," Sherlock huffed as his only reply, and swung his legs over the side of the bed, in what was generally used as his room, whenever he needed to sleep (which wasn't really that frequent, but more so than the Doctor).  
"Why is it they _always_ complain about the bunk-beds!"  
"Because they're moronic,"  
"Bunk-beds are cool," The Doctor declared.  
"For eight year-olds," Snapped the sleuth.  
"Everyone's an eight-year old inside, at least a little bit. I know for _sure _you are, Sherlock,"  
"So . . . What happened?" Sherlock asked after a pause. His mind was a bit fuzzy.

"Oh, you know. A bit of a run in with the Silurians. Their venom's really quite potent, as it turns out. Oh, sorry about the hand, should be better in a few days," He added, and Sherlock looked down at his left hand, where an ugly green-black bruise blossomed around a jagged cut that looked to be several days old. "Luckily I had the antidote from a good friend of mine. Had to go to the 1800s for you, _on my own_, while you were back here asleep, talk about _lazy_," The Doctor ranted, trying to keep his tone light, but Sherlock detected a hint of how truly upset and worried he'd been at managing to get Sherlock injured.  
"I don't really remember anything from the past few days, to be honest, Doctor,"  
"Yes, well, we are _not _going back underground. Oh, and for future reference, Silurians do _not _take kindly to being harshly analysed by Homo sapiens. Their emperess _especially _doesn't like being told that her husband is cheating on her in front of all her courtiers," The Doctor's tone was suddenly serious.

Sherlock nodded solemnly for a moment, but he couldn't help it: he began to smirk. Then, the smirk turned to a low chuckle, and then a full-blown laugh. The Doctor, against his better judgement, joined in and for a moment they laughed like it was the first time they'd been amused in many years.

Sherlock hadn't been truly carefree, totally blissfully _happy _even for a single moment ever seen he had left-

. . . Ever since . . .

He abruptly stopped laughing, and gasped, suddenly grabbing the Doctor's lapels in urgency, his eyes wide with a realisation; the Doctor's wide in sudden surprise.

Sherlock had remembered the entire contents of his reality-bending, haunting and terrifying dream in that second.

"John," He breathed to the Timelord. ". . . Doctor, take me back to 221b!"

* * *

"But why? I mean, I'm _thrilled_, but . . . Why? You said yourself, you need to keep away from him, and everyone else you love, or they'll get hurt!"  
"The . . . _Dream_, made me have a change of heart," Sherlock explained, though he was loathe to call it a dream.

The TARDIS shuddered as the Doctor put in the coordinates. He looked up, curious, at the sleuth, his eyes urging him to go on, and his words telling him he wanted the whole story: "What exactly did you see, Sherlock? . . . What happened, in there?" He tapped his own temple slowly, cautiously, wary of what Sherlock might say.

The consulting detective tried to remember how the dream had started, but he couldn't for the life of his completely recall. The first instance had included him realising that something was _different_ . . . Other-worldly, despite where he'd woken up, which was-  
"I can't really remember how it started, but I was in 221b with John – that's when I realised something was wrong. Then, there was the noise of sirens, and I fell asleep, and I was back in the TARDIS, only I wasn't awake and you weren't quite . . . _You_.  
"A man, who looked like Moriarty, introduced himself as the, um – the 'Dreamlord'. He said I had to play a game, or I'd die – I needed to pick either the TARDIS, or 221b. Only, in both worlds, something catastrophic was about to happen, so I had to be quick. In the TARDIS world, we were on an unstoppable collision course with a planet; in the 221b-centric world, I was a terrorist – a bomber, being chased by the police.  
"Every time I fell asleep in one world, I woke up in the other. I tried extremely hard to deduce which world was the real one, and which was false. I concluded that the TARDIS world was real, so I had to kill myself in the world with 221b to wake up. Strangely enough, I jumped from the top of St. Barts again – but this time, John wasn't there. I was convinced he wasn't even real, until I was almost at the ground, and I saw him. He looked . . . Upset. Lost, and alone. That's when I realised, I . . ."

He faltered, unsure of what to say.

"That's when you realised that he needed you," The Doctor finished, with the softest, kindest and most proud smile Sherlock had ever seen him smile. He had lost so much, so many; his whole planet irrevocably lost. But there was one thing that kept him going, through his struggles and self-hatred: humans. The human race had a knack for surprising both themselves and him; it was like they never realised they were human until they did something either incredibly violent and cruel, or incredibly selfless and noble. This was a case of the latter.

"Well, I . . . Yes," Sherlock agreed falteringly, "However, it was more like . . . I couldn't leave him alone any longer,"  
"And so we shan't!" The Doctor cried, his voice raising from its previous murmur, and gaining a triumphant tone. Sherlock was glad to have the uncomfortable emotional confessional out of the way, and smirked familiarly at the Doctor as the Timelord got carried away, leaping into action. In seconds, the TARDIS was shaking and shivering, and throwing the two of them about. They clung onto various railings and the console, the Doctor openly laughing like a madman. Sherlock was glad to have _his_ Doctor back, rather than the one his mind had conjured: the twisted version of the Timelord.

He was also glad to be rid of the Dreamlord; for he knew now that the Dreamlord wasn't a villain, or even really necessarily evil: _he _was the Dreamlord. It was _his_ mind, telling him that he needed to go back to John; _forcing _him to see the light.

Sherlock and Moriarty: ironically, in the warped world created by his mind under the influence of the Silurian venom, they were one and the same. Though Moriarty had separated him from John in real life, now he was orchestral in bringing them back together again.

The TARDIS stilled, her orange lights dimming slightly.  
"Are you ready?" The Doctor asked, smiling, but still a little concerned. He was about to deal a massive blow to his best friend, after all.  
"It's not me you need to worry about, Doctor,"  
"I'm _always _worried about you, Sherlock. You're my companion, after all,"  
"Please, you're starting to sound like _Mycroft_,"  
The Doctor laughed, and folded his arms, gesturing with a flick of his head towards the door, "Go on, then,"

Without another word, Sherlock turned towards the door, and strode purposefully towards it, feeling like he couldn't possibly get to it quickly enough. He'd waited long enough; his friend needed him now. He pushed the door open with a squeak of its hinges.

He was immediately confronted by the sight of a sparsely decorated 221b. The new, minimalist setup had a clean feel to it, with neutral furnishings that he didn't find to be particularly nice; they were less expensive than the antiques he'd moved into the flat without John's say-so for decoration, and less personal, and interesting.

However, something was . . . _Off_. Though it _appeared_ clean, and light, with the watery sunlight filtering through the thick glass windows casting a yellowish-grey light on the whole room, it was actually layered in dust.

_He can't even face being in this room. Not even when all of my things have been disposed of. I still haunt it. _

He ventured out of the TARDIS fully; leaving the corner it had parked itself in, he ran his index finger through the dust on the mantelpiece. Mrs. Hudson usually did the dusting, but he supposed, if John couldn't face being in the living room, she couldn't, either. He'd been like a son to her.

But obviously, to get to the kitchen, John needed to come through here: it was obvious that he did still use the kitchen, as there was a well-trodden path closest to the wall that he used to get to it; it was like he wanted to stay as close as possible to the wall, to avoid venturing into the living room. Sherlock winced at the implication.

Taking a few steps towards the window, he wondered idly if anyone was home. He couldn't hear Mrs. Hudson's radio or television, and he couldn't hear the slow typing of John punching in one letter after the other into his laptop's keyboard upstairs.

That was when he saw it: a Mercedes that he didn't recognise; a model that wasn't out yet, and that he'd never seen in his life . . . A cool wave of realisation made him want to break out in a panicked sweat and run back to the TARDIS immediately. He'd just noticed the license plate: '15 registration.

He was three years late. But, if he got back to the TARDIS - if he told the Doctor to go back a few years, he might be able to just-

A key turned in the lock.

_Too late_.

John bustled in, taking the path closest to the far wall to avoid venturing into the living room, and to get most directly to the kitchen. Sherlock didn't know what to say; he wanted to act casually.  
"Alright?" It sounded more nervous and hesitant than he'd been going for.  
_Damn. _

John immediately spun around; eyes widening in alarm, he set what appeared to be bags full of shopping down on the table - he still reached for the gun that wasn't there in his waistband, after three years, Sherlock noted with a feeling something like pride.

He just stared for a moment, his face entirely blank, unable to react properly for at least a minute. It wasn't that Sherlock's miraculous appearance hadn't registered; it was that he couldn't even jumpstart his body to react. He was having trouble breathing.

"No," He eventually whispered, and though his blank face didn't change at all, his voice was hoarse and quiet.  
"Didn't think you would be," Sherlock commented glibly, picking up one of the very few items in the room - a TV guide from several months ago - and examined it, brushing the dust from it onto the floor in a way that could have been construed as being awkward.

Obviously, John hadn't been answering his question. This became even more apparent when he saw John keel over and faint. He leapt across the room his grab his friend, making sure he didn't hit his head on the table.  
"Doctor!" He yelled, though he wasn't sure if he was directing it at his nearest friend, or his Timelord one. The Timelord poked his head out of the TARDIS – which, as per usual, John had failed to notice, being human and so delightfully _average _and all – and saw Sherlock's situation.  
"Ah," He said, a little put out, "I had a feeling this might happen. Let's take care of him inside, shall we?" He gestured inside the TARDIS.  
"Are you sure that's a good idea? He's already quite overwhelmed," Sherlock reasoned with an uncharacteristic note of care in his deep voice.  
"Then how much extra damage could a space-and-time-ship do? It'd help your explanation of how you survived – two birds with one stone, no?"

Sherlock sighed. "Grab his legs," He acquiesced.  
"Right-o,"

The two tall men dragged the smaller man into the TARDIS, its glowing lights making warm, comforting colours behind his eyelids. He stirred, eventually, and opened his eyes to see an unearthly ceiling, his impossible friend, and a man who was for some reason wearing tweed and a bow tie. He frowned, perplexed but not feeling threatened, because he could see Sherlock Holmes' stupid bloody smirk and that made him feel okay. A smile from a friend – even a supposedly _dead_ friend – did wonders for a neglected and desolate soul, it would seem.

So, for the first time in what seemed like years, _and was_, Doctor Watson smiled back, accepting Sherlock's hand to pull him to a standing position. He looked all around for a minute, speechless, and then at Sherlock's face for a few minutes more.

The Doctor waited for his personal favourite first-time-passenger line, 'It's bigger on the inside'. What he got was:  
". . . I – I missed you,"  
But he wasn't disappointed at all.

* * *

_**Aww. The End! If you liked it, recommend it to your friends! And it would be great if you left a review :)**_


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